


Redamancy

by patriciaselina



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Benedict interacting with children, Cross-Generational Friendship, Gen, Self-Insert, Wish Fulfillment, based on a dream I had once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a scenario ripped straight from her wildest dreams, a girl named Patricia gets the opportunity to have tea with Benedict Cumberbatch. (Yes, she is well aware of her decidedly tame imagination.) Perfection, right? Well, not when a certain brother does not approve of the meeting... [Self-insert fic, seriously based on a weird dream I had once, the only good dream I ever remembered having.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redamancy

**_redamancy_ **

**('red-a-“man-sE)**

**n.** the act of loving the one who loves you;

a love returned in full

([x](http://other-wordly.tumblr.com/post/22658587310/redamancy))

* * *

 

For once in your life, you finally feel underdressed.

Singapore is finally, forgivingly, decidedly _not_ warm - _finally_ , because the past few times you've traveled, it had been so hot you had to buy not the comfy sleeved shirts you saw in Uniqlo, and instead get the thinnest lounge shirts Cotton On had to offer (losing your luggage is a tricky business, and also a memory you'd like to _not_ dwell on, thank you very much); _forgivingly_ , because this third time you had both intact luggage and a weather fit for your favourite kind of sleeved shirts; and _decidedly_ because, well. It had been raining outside, the kind of rain that had the most _delicious_ kind of winds to go along with it.

You are sitting in the same tea shop you and your aunts and grandmother had gone to years ago, designer brands to your right, signature jewellers to your left, fingers drumming erratically on the tabletop.

It’s a tell: you, Patricia Selina, college student who stares down classmates and professors alike, are _nervous_.

See, it's not that you thought yourself underdressed for the establishment, like many other little girls of your stature or financial status do - you've been places in a shirt and jeans and thought nothing about it, true to form with your attitude of not giving a damn, but this is _different_.

Because this is the day that you pulled on your thin black sweater (read: your _only_ sweater) over your dressiest, sea-green-and-roses button-down, with your darkest jeans and your aunt's black patent leather ankle boots ( _boots_ , your subconscious wails, there are boots in the vicinity and the one wearing them is _you_ ) and _still_ feel underdressed.

If your companion knew about your internal hesitance, he'd have groaned louder than he has been for the past few minutes, and he'd have muttered something about how you should _not_ go through with today after all, just go back to the hotel and sleep.

He doesn't know, of course (he’s not a mind reader… _yet_ ), and yet he is already scowling at you as he nibbles on his madeleine.

You groan, pressing the balls of your hands to your forehead. “Come on, babe, _'wag naman ganyan, o_.”

Instead of abandoning his bad mood, however, your companion scrunches his nose, swallows the remains of the madeleine, and pouts.

Granted, you could've just gone alone - you're eighteen years old - _eighteen years old!_ \- and despite being a tourist you know you're determined (read: stubborn) and resourceful (read: persistent) enough to get directions back to where your family had been earlier - but he had _insisted_ , and who are you to refuse him?

Nobody could refuse him, _ever_.

“ _Di bale_ , you were the one who insisted anyway. And you were the one who knew most about this meeting, _di ba_?”

He grunts in a way that manages to convey _'yeah, I know - you **cannot** shut up about the topic for WEEKS now_ ' without saying a single word.

You hand him a cream puff - he brightens up immediately. “ _Ayan, o_. Consider that payment for now. What do you say, when we go back, I'll pop your favourite show in the DVD player and _everyone_ will have to watch. Okay?”

You get his fervent nodding in reply as he keeps himself busy with the profiterole's shiny sugar glaze. And then as if it had all been on cue, there he is - the shades-wearing, tall, impeccably dressed third member of your party.

'Impeccably dressed' is still a term that can be used to refer to him, even if - well, he is probably the only man who can wear that jacket with that scarf and get away with it.

After looking around for onlookers - and apparently turning out with none - he unwraps the scarf from his neck and shrugs out of his jacket, smiling at you the entire time.

“Sorry, really sorry, I've kept you waiting!” he says, tucking his shades into the pocket of his powder blue button-down before offering you his hand. “Hello. Have you been waiting long...Patricia Selina, am I correct?”

Angels do not sing, the world does not end, and your knees do not shake as you stand up. _And yet_ , you think as your sorry lack of height makes itself glaringly obvious in the presence of his six-foot-tall stature. _And yet_.

(The universe has _got_ to be kidding. Four feet and _eleven-and-a-half_ _inches_? _Seriously_? The heels do _very_ little help.)

“Astute deduction, sir, for that _is_ my name. And no, not for long,” you say in reply, standing up to shake his hand, and amazingly you do not faint, or black out, or otherwise prevent the conversation from happening.

But from the look on your companion's face, it looks like that had been what he was hoping for, so you shake your head and turn your attention to him.

“If he'd talk, he'd say _he_ has been, however. Mister Cumberbatch, this is my little brother, Hunter Sean.”

As expected, Benedict Cumberbatch's - _Benedict Cumberbatch's!_ \- gaze grew softer as his eyes met your brother's. “Hunter's a nice name. It's nice to meet you too! Hello, Hunter, how old are you?”

Hunter only shoots Benedict what could only be called a death-glare, and turns your way, burrowing into your sweater, pointedly ignoring the older man.

“Two years old,” you reply in his behalf. “And yes, he can talk - not as chatty as I apparently was, but he does talk. Just around family, of course, and umm. Mostly around me?” A chuckle, and then. “We're each other's only siblings; I'm his only playmate. Kind of like Holmes and Watson, in a way.”

Benedict grins at you, an interesting gleam in his eyes. “Don't be shy, I assume you'd be a good Sherlock for him.” He shrugs. “Trust me - I don't mean this in a cocky way, really, but I, for one, would know.”

“Actually, _he's_ the Sherlock,” you reply, trying earnestly to call for a waiter with your free, Hunter-less hand.

Benedict mutters “oh?” and waits for you to continue.

“ _He's_ the mastermind. I do most of the heavy lifting, as would be obvious from the sixteen-year age gap.”

“Sixteen years! Still, better late than never, I guess? Having siblings sounds _wonderful_.” There is the faintest hint of longing laced into his sudden exhale of breath, which dissipates as he calls for a waiter.

Waiter finally called over, he goes and says his order. Obviously he'd looked over your almost-empty tray of pastries when he arrived - more cream puffs and madeleines! - and, serving as further proof, he turns to you. “Ready for another batch of those pastries?”

See, there, food is your element. Always has been, and combined with your crap metabolism it equates into your softer, dare you say meatier physique, something you know full well you have to do something about, someday.

…definitely not today, however, because TWG's madeleines are the best and you'll be _damned_ before you can say no to them. There is a glint of determination in your eyes as you reply, “If you'll excuse me saying so, I was _born_ ready.”

He hums, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the tabletop in a beat vaguely like you did earlier. Unlike you, however, he doesn’t seem nervous (why _would_ he be?), rather, pleased.

The new orders arrive in a few minutes, leaving you to keep an eye on Hunter, and a hand on the tray, fearful he'd suddenly reach for the fragile trays and send them toppling in milliseconds as he is prone to do.

Suddenly there is a hand above your own. “Oh, let _me_ , darling.” Benedict grins, prying your fingers gingerly from their grip on the aforementioned trays. “You go and hold him, I'll protect the cutlery.”

You smile, or at least you try your best attempt at a smile, what with the pressure of toddler-weight pressing steadily on your (praise the Lord, _non_ -dominant) arm.

“For an only child, you seem to know the ways of children.” you say. You also, thankfully, get to go through that sentence without thinking about how he had called you _darling_.

(You have spent an entire semester trying not to think about how you were next-door-neighbors with a classroom _telenovela_. That was _easy_. You can _do_ this.)

He shrugs, filling up his teacup. “My mother says that it's because I still _am_ one. I used to be quite the troublemaker, apparently...cutlery was _always_ involved.” Pleased at the state of his now-filled teacup, he grins.

Then he turns to you and _oh dear Lord, those eyes, they really are beautiful_. If you do not survive this appointment (it’s not a ‘date’, it really isn’t), your ghost shall have the doctors write down “Benedict Cumberbatch’s eyes” under ‘cause of death’.

Benedict is, however, blessedly unaware of your irrational mental status. He looks to you, teapot in hand, and asks you, “A refill?”

You gulp, sucking in a breath, suddenly feeling the need to. “Yes, please.” He goes about the motions, eyes focused in a way that would be comical had he not been so serious about doing so.

In order to stop yourself from gaping at the man (that is really, _really_ unseemly), you decide to speak.

“I'm really honored, getting to see you today. I never thought it'd happen, because...well. The Philippines and the UK aren't exactly known to be next-door neighbors.” You pause, considering your next words, attempting a sip of tea.

(Between the struggle with decorum and the struggle with having a toddler attached to your arm, this is harder than it seems.)

“They are, however, the nations most known to be referred to with a 'the' in front.” you murmur, clearly slowly succumbing into your autopilot mode of sarcasm.

Benedict must have not seen that as sarcasm, because he laughs as he sets down the teapot.

People keep telling you that you have your own brand of dry humor - you haven't the heart to tell them that most of the time your words are intended as scathing sarcastic comments - and maybe they were telling the truth? Nevertheless, his laugh is a sight to behold – oh wait you just said something, did you say something Not Good?

“Meeting fans is always a _fantastic_ experience for me - it's a shame, really, that I cannot meet all of you, though I do know that going forth with that would be a logistical nightmare waiting to happen!” Benedict says, eyes focused on his own hands as he plucks out a single madeleine from its platter.

“I'm honoured to see you as well,” he continues. “I never thought that people would know about me in a country that is, for all intents and purposes, halfway around the world...the Philippines sounds like a lovely place, though. I'd like to go there.”

“Suggestion: if you like a relatively safe stay, it'd be best to stick to the malls, or to the tourist places with tons of security.” You nibble on a madeleine, considering…then remembering just who it is that you are talking to.

“But knowing you, you'd probably go for the adventure-laden places, so it's best you have someone along, someone you trust not to cheat you out of house and home...take care of belongings at all times, the usual stuff.”

Your brother has finally - _finally_! - detached himself from your arm long enough for you to be able to sip your now-cooled tea in peace. “It's a nice place, yes, and also sometimes a scary place, also yes, but...I always say I want to travel, but still, it's home. Can't be much ashamed about that, _no_?”

“I feel the same way, actually.” He says in return, nodding. “We've got our cock-ups, but still, it doesn't change that London is _beautiful_.”

You have little-to-no idea as to how your conversation veered this way, but between your budding loquaciousness and his eloquent own, you assume that rapid-topic-shifting would be a fact of nature.

“I thought at first that maybe why I thought so is because London is my home, but I don't think that's the point.” Benedict taps a finger to his chin, seemingly in thought. It is distracting, but you think you’ve gotten used to it.

“The point is, every place in the world is beautiful and we're all too daft and narrow-minded to see it. Not perfect, of course, but isn't everything?”

You decide not to ruin the rapport by mentioning what your numerous Tumblr comrades have said about him vis-a-vis the state of human perfection.

Instead, you say: “If only humanity as a whole would stop fighting over stuff and start getting along for a change, life would be better. The times are different, but the message stubbornly stays the same - guess that says something about the state of humanity, doesn't it.”

“Exactly. Sherlock would probably explain it by concluding that humanity is by-and-large a bunch of idiots, and on that front I'd have to agree with him.”

Benedict reaches out to get another profiterole from the tray, and as he does his fingers collide with yours, as you were doing the same thing. Your cheeks suddenly grow warmer, and he laughs, taking the cream puff and setting it down on your plate instead.

He winks.

(Hunter, who has been watching with great interest, shuffles closer to you, glaring daggers at Benedict. The phrase “if looks could kill” comes to mind.)

“On the front of humanity being idiots about not playing nice, I mean,” Benedict corrects, realizing. “…not that's he's right about everyone being idiots, period.”

“Though if someone were to say that, it'd definitely be him.” you say, and you both laugh.

This is a big thing for you, little miss poker-faced snark princess, the fact that you have been nothing but _happy_ and _apprehensive_ the entire time, but you know full well that if anyone was to make you laugh so much, it would be him.

God, you sound like such a sappy little sap. Thankfully Benedict is not Sherlock Holmes and cannot ascertain your thoughts from the microscopic tells on your face - _oh wait_ , why is your brain so slow to remind you, _he probably **does**_! Out with it, then.

“Speaking of which, you should already know this, but umm.”

How did that stutter get there, young woman, you were given hosting duty of your preparatory school graduation at the age of four, past you would be _so_ embarrassed of you right now.

“Mister Cumberbatch -”

“'Benedict', _please_ , darling.”

You try to force your heart to stop pounding like an actual jackhammer, you really do.

Hunter scowls and pinches your arm, presumably to snap you back to reality - more probably because he has, in all his toddler wisdom, picked up on what it is you are thinking.

(It’s one of the prerequisite specs of an overprotective brother.)

“- Benedict. You sure about that -” _Do not say darling. Do **not**. Say darling_. “- sir?”

This should probably be the time when you remind yourself that you spend the majority of your non-Internet life snarking at classmates and professors alike. The majority of your Internet life, on the other hand, is equal parts writing introspective fanfiction and/or odes to Benedict Cumberbatch's eyes.

These parts make up a whole that definitely does not fit any definition of “the ideal conversationalist”.

“Haven't been knighted yet, Patricia.” he chides, though his tone is more affectionate than patronizing.

“Might it be rude of me to draw attention to that _'yet'_.”

“No, it might not.” Benedict shrugs, taking another sip of the tea, putting on that famous Holmes haughtiness with practiced ease, before breaking down into a grin. “Carry on with what you were saying, then.”

“...right.” What _were_ you saying? Oh, right.

“Benedict,” …you would probably have to get used to those eyes, they won't be leaving any soon. “I just wanted to say...well, how _else_ am I supposed to say it? You're a brilliant Sherlock and a fantastic actor, and a spectacular person, to top it all off. I'd say thank you for existing, though that sounds extremely sappy and should probably be said to your parents. So maybe I'll just have to say thank you, full stop.”

“You're welcome.” He raises an eyebrow, but his eyes seem to be sparkling wetly. Did you say anything wrong? “And thank _you_ , for being such a dear. Aren't _you_ a charming one?”

Before you can think of something to say to that - really, what _can_ you say to that, 'charming' is one of the many words _nobody_ would ever use to describe you (along with ‘outgoing’ and ‘tall’) - your little brother suddenly whines, sidles closer to you in what could only be an uninspired attempt to permanently weld his body to your now-aching side.

“ _Milk_!” Hunter grunts, glaring at you. If you weren't so used to his moods, you'd be emotionally-scarred, running away from him and sobbing by now. Sherlock-and-Watson _indeed_.

“Whoops, guess it _is_ time for some milk.” you say, holding your brother close, and Hunter nods. “See, hun, this is the reason why you have to actually _eat_ the food, not just suck the sugar out of it. _Sandali lang, ha_.”

You realize that you had put the diaper bag on Hunter's side of the table, and as you are you cannot reach for the bag without dropping something (or, more distressingly, some _one_ ).

More evidence points towards Benedict being an actual Sherlock Holmes, because he gives the two of you one long look, and offers you his hand. “May I?”

Your mind takes a while to process the meaning of this statement, but Hunter's does not, as he affects a vise grip on your neck as he throws another glare Benedict's direction.

“ _No_.” he drawls, in that accent none of you has any idea where he picked up from. (You call dibs he got it from the original _Hi5_. Not from _Sherlock_ \- he never really liked it when you watched _Sherlock_.) “No no _no_ no no no no!”

He tries so hard to hide it from you, but you can see how Benedict's face falls at your brother's words. “He doesn't like me much, doesn't he.” he says, anxiously.

 _Yes, he **really** doesn't,_ you know at least that much. It started since your mother watched _Hounds of Baskerville_ with the two of you and helpfully pointed out that “Sherlock is your sister's boyfriend”.

Hunter was a little over one year old, and yet he blocked out every view you might have of Benedict's face on the telly (so you like to call a TV a _telly_ , is that such a crime), with a passion/ferocity/accuracy the MTRCB could only wish they had.

But it's not like you were going to tell that to Benedict Cumberbatch. Sweet, nice, _with-a-soft-spot-for-babies_ Benedict Cumberbatch.

Knowing that this adorable little bundle of joy - and mischief, and sassiness, and snark, and a whole other things he mostly picked up from you - also hated him and blocked out his face from every _Star Trek Into Darkness_ poster you have ever seen would _break his heart_.

“ _Ano ka ba naman ho_ ,” you mutter, feigning an air of disbelief. “He doesn't hate you, okay?” _Hate is such a **strong** word, you want to say_ , but stop because...what word _should_ you use instead?

What Benedict won’t know won’t hurt him, you decide finally, and proceed on obfuscation.

“He's just...sleepy, I think? And hungry.” You poke Hunter on one chubby cheek, absentmindedly, wondering just what is going on in your little brother's head. “That's what he gets for being one hell of a selective eater.”

“You did say something about milk, right?” The smile returns on Benedict's face, though he is still visibly saddened by your brother's denial. “How can I be of assistance?”

“They're premeasured, actually.” you reply, grateful for your mother's attention to detail. “One division to a bottle. Thank you _po_.”

Asking for help from a celebrity who'd gone all the way to Singapore to see _you_ seemed like it would make you feel embarrassed, but embarrassment never really was your thing, now wasn't it? Instead, you feel nothing but gratitude.

(It's a good thing you're pants at people and thus have a nonexistent tangible social life, because few people should know that behind your silent facade you really are just a extravagantly selective _sappy old sap_.)

He shakes the bottle in his hands before handing it to you. “Here you are, darling. Feed the little one.”

“Our dad would be saying _'feed the Kraken_!' if he were here, what with all the fuss he's making.” you say, shaking your head as he hands you the bottle. “Thank you, again.”

“It's no trouble.” Benedict replies, drawing back and returning to his chair, bringing the diaper bag with him as he did so.

“Since you seem to be rather, err... _attached_ to the little boy, I shall be in charge of the miscellany.” He grins at you, looking for all the world like the universe's most attractive manny in existence, what with the way he holds Hunter's baby bag - red, blocky, solid - as if it was worth its weight in gold.

(...and suddenly you feel _grateful_ for the existence of the chair holding you up and away from the floor. God, you're _such_ a teenager, it's unsettling. Even if you still _are_ one.)

“Thank you, really.” you say, watching your brother multitask between suckling on the bottle teat and glaring at the both of you. “He's just...well, not used to people. Like me, in more ways than I ever expected – his big sister’s not the friendly type, only makes sense he seems to not be one, too.”

“Not used to people? Well, color me surprised.”

“Oh, please don’t try to charm me, I already _am_ charmed.” Who is this girl and what has she done with your words? Benedict, obviously used to such behavior, only grins.

“It’s just that, well. You’ve been doing well, so far. Being all conversational and such. It’s almost like we’re friends.”

“To tell you the truth –” Hunter is suckling from the milk bottle now, lying in your arms, seemingly content, but his face bears an expression that plainly says _choose your words **wisely** , big sister, or this meeting ends here._ “- that would be an _honor_ , really.”

Benedict looks at you, at bit of confusion finding its way into his eyes. “What would be?”

“Well, you see, back home – everyone thinks that I quite _fancy_ you.” You had wanted to say something else, but somehow you’ve gotten yourself to speaking honestly, why did you decide to be honest about your feelings _today_?

“Like, a whole lot of people I know – my friends, my batchmates, my family – they all think I’m, well. _Romantically_ attracted to you.”

There’s a smile on Benedict’s face still, though it’s now a bit strained, his eyes widening in alarm. Hunter looks up at you, waiting. “Well, I won’t say I _haven’t_ heard that before.” Benedict says.

“But, the truth is, they’d actually be wrong.”

“Oh, okay, now _that’s_ something I’ve been hearing in short supply lately.”

“Don’t get me wrong – it isn’t because I _don’t_ find you attractive, because I do. A whole lot, really. But, well,” you look up at him, hoping your eyes are successfully conveying sincerity. “A girl _can_ find someone attractive, and want to be his _friend_ , right?”

Benedict’s expression loses some of the strain, and his face goes back to where you were before, back to ‘camaraderie’, with a bit of ‘relief’ thrown in. “That she _can_ do. I would like to be a friend of yours, Patricia.”

You smirk, not an unkind one, though. “You’re only saying that because I happen to have access to the _cutest_ baby in the _entire world_.”

He makes a face that plays along, pretends that he’s mulling it over. “Well, actually…”

“Don’t worry, if he were attached to you, I’d befriend _you_ to get to him, too.” you retort, and you laugh together.

Despite the supposed awkwardness of the entire situation – being called from a Singapore holiday to meet your British idol in a fancy teashop, both your little brother and great urge to hug and shower compliments at Benedict Cumberbatch in tow – this, right here, right now, it seems just right to you.

(Just like Goldilocks using Baby Bear’s stuff – okay, that probably wasn’t the best simile to use.)

“I was a bit worried back then, though.” he tells you, smiling a bit shyly.

“Really – a _bit_?” you reply, raising an eyebrow, somehow regaining some of your bravado. “Your eyes were so wide I thought they were going to turn into fine china.”

“Oh, all right.” Benedict raises his arms in mock surrender, still seeming a bit bashful. “Well, it’s just that, well, you know me.”

“I do.”

“That was a rhetorical question, darling – well, there’s me, and don’t take this the wrong way, but Patricia, you’re old enough to be my –”

“ – your daughter?” you say, pushing your luck at teasing a bit further.

“ – I was going to say ‘little sister’.” Benedict continues, still smiling, but from here you can hear the cogs in his mind ticking. “But…I really _am_ that old enough. To have children your age, I mean.”

Being Little Miss Sassy as you are prone to do around friends ( _Benedict Cumberbatch_ is your **_friend_** now, apparently, oh sweet merciful heaven) is fun enough, but you decide to set that aside for now.

“According to documentation, yes.” you tell Benedict, smiling down at Hunter as the milk lulls him down to sleep. “But no matter what those will say, you’ll always be old enough for us to love you, and what you do.”

The smile he grants you then is fond, fonder than any of the others he’s graced you with this afternoon.

“I think I’m going to like being your friend, Patricia.”

You chuckle, flattered. There is a high chance your cheeks are flushing redder than tomatoes.

“I think I already do, Benedict.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N** : The thing is, I really have to reiterate that this really isn't a Ben meets Reader story, no - it's a Ben meets _me_ story to the very core, and it just so happens that second-person POV is my tool of choice since...well, last year. And besides, I can't ever get myself to write this fic's POV in a POV that isn't mine, if that makes any sense.
> 
> (Also, yes. The word used in the title comes from [this other-wordly post](http://other-wordly.tumblr.com/post/22658587310/redamancy).
> 
> In a departure from the usual RPF, however, I chose not to go the full nine yards and did not go with a full-on romantic plot. It's “ _Redamancy_ ” for a reason - I want to be Benedict's friend, and in-story I _do_ become his friend, making this still a story about requited affection. Affection – it doesn't always have to be romantic, or sexual. Not that I’m saying that those are not perfectly good examples of affection, just that they don’t seem to fit well with my situation, personally speaking.
> 
> The last six hundred words are a bit off, because…well, the dream was cut short by my alarm clock. I never really did know how it ended. If I do find out, however, I might just edit the end part of this to match…
> 
>  
> 
> Now, for the random spots of foreign language! Interspersing Tagalog into English statements is more an art than science, but yes, I would actually speak like this IRL. Translations are more context-fueled than word-by-word generated, so I would like to profusely apologize beforehand to my fellow native speakers. There's a reason why the only subject I didn't get a high school award for was Filipino...
> 
>  ** _Come on, babe, 'wag naman ganyan, o_**. - Come on, babe, don't be like that, huh.
> 
>  ** _Di bale, you were the one who insisted anyway. And you were the one who knew most about this meeting, di ba?_** \- It doesn't matter, you were the one who insisted anyway. And you were the one who knew most about this meeting, [weren't you]?
> 
>  ** _Ayan, o._** \- There, [see].
> 
>  ** _Sandali lang, ha._** \- Just wait, [okay?]
> 
>  ** _Ano ka ba naman ho._** \- What are you [going on about].


End file.
